


We All Have Sizable Scars (We Got It)

by joanses (deerie)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic At The Disco, The Hush Sound
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-30
Updated: 2008-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-10 02:46:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deerie/pseuds/joanses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>for bandom_100, prompt 28: death</p>
    </blockquote>





	We All Have Sizable Scars (We Got It)

**Author's Note:**

> for bandom_100, prompt 28: death

The air was thick, slimy. Greta choked back a sob. Brendon sat on the bed across from her, shoulders curled in, head down. They were in some faceless part of the city, holed up in a dingy motel. The locks on the door had been checked twice, three times, and the chain lock had not moved from its position since Brendon had slid it shut. Neither of them said a word.

Outside, buildings burned. The sky was a charcoal gray and wind pushed its way from the north. What lucky people were left hid inside wreckage, stayed off the streets. Those who were not so fortunate lay in the gutters, flesh sticky yet sloughing off.

Inside the motel room, Greta lifted her head and stared at the boy - a man now, she supposed, they were not children any longer - in front of her. She pressed her hand against his knee. One of them needed to be strong. "B-Brendon," her voice caught in her throat and she had to will herself not to cry.

When he looked up, his eyes were hollow, dead. This was the face of someone forced to grow up too fast. Greta expected her face to look the same.

"It wasn't supposed to end like this." The gruffness in his voice startled her. It took her a moment to notice he was crying.

He was right - it wasn't supposed to end like this. It wasn't supposed to end at all.

*

When news of a sickness appeared on the television, pocketed between broadcasts of the war and the upcoming presidential election, no one had paid much attention. They didn't think they had to. Modern medicine was supposed to protect them from such things as plagues. Sickness that spread like this was reserved for third world countries, for people lacking the technology greater nations possessed.

The panic began to spread however, when major cities started shutting down. The Government quarantined large portions of the country, deeming them too far gone to save. Walls were erected. Those who tried to escape their prisons were shot. Cities were sectioned off one by one - New York first, followed by L.A and Las Vegas, and finally Chicago.

No one knew where the sickness originated. Some scientists speculated that the virus spread through the water. Others thought that it was spread through human contact. People were too preoccupied with how it spread instead of focusing on the real problem - where it came from. Maybe that's where science and modern medicine went wrong. Scientists never stopped to think that maybe this was a chemical or biological warfare, and if the Government knew anything about it, they were keeping quiet.

None of it would matter soon enough. After the walls were built, most communication ended.

*

"Pete says they're canceling their tour, and we should probably do the same." Ryan's face was set in a grim line and worry was apparent in his eyes. "I think he's right."

Jon hit a wrong note on the piano he was fiddling with and stopped playing. "Because everyone is getting sick, right?"

Ryan nodded before sighing. "He said Andy was coming down with something too. They don't know if it's the Sickness, but they don't want to take any chances."

Spencer looked up from his spot on the couch. "I'll go call Bob." It wasn't required, their manager probably already knew, but the call gave Spencer something to do.

Suddenly, Brendon burst into the room, panic evident on his usually bright face. "Guys, guys. The walls - They're building walls."

Ryan fell into the nearest chair, hands coming to cover his face. Spencer, who was already on the phone, clicked it shut as his face grew white. The whole room grew silent, only to be broken by Brendon whispering, "What are we going to do?"

Jon stood up. His face was set. "They can't make this go away by making this a prison. I'm going to go find a way out."

Brendon jumped up, ready to join him.

"No, no. You guys stay here. If I find somewhere to get out, I'll send back for you." Jon grabbed his phone and a jacket. He stifled a cough nervously and pushed his feet into his flip-flops. "I'll be fine. I'll call you when I find it."

Perhaps Jon knew he was getting the Sickness. Perhaps he knew that by staying with his friends, he would be damning them to the plague that was sweeping the country. The point is, they never got a call.

Brendon, Spencer, and Ryan all sat around their phones for days, but they never got a call back from Jon.

*

The first month behind the wall was hell. Terrified masses raided and looted buildings, stores, houses. There were no safe places in Vegas. Most of the lights on the Strip, once visible from miles away, were either burned out or broken. Only a few lights remained in a mockery of life before the Sickness.

Ryan kept up constant contact with Pete. He would relay to Brendon and Spencer what Pete said. A month after the walls in Vegas had gone up, Pete told them that walls were being placed around Chicago. He said that Andy had succumbed to the Sickness. Ryan asked if Pete had heard from Jon every day he talked to Pete, but Pete had nothing to say.

When the second month behind the wall began, Ryan stopped asking. After that, he stopped eating.

Ryan was withering away to skin and bones, his sharp angles becoming even more pronounced. Spencer spent his days trying to will Ryan to - "Please, just eat something, Ryan. Please." - consume anything, but Ryan just shook his head, refused. He pressed himself into the space between the bookshelf and the window, like he was trying to set a vigil in case any survivors made their way to the house.

They watched movies at night, trying to escape their current fate, but in the end Brendon was always left choking back tears and shaking.

When Spencer disappeared, Brendon didn't think the rest of them would make it out alive.

*

Greta showed up at their house two weeks later. Her dress was in tatters and she carried a worn back pack. Dirt streaked her face and there were bruises and scrapes littering her arms and legs. When Brendon opened the door, she held up her phone. "Pete said I could find you here."

Brendon quickly pulled her inside the house.

She told them stories of what happened to her band, how she managed to find them. Bob had contracted the Sickness first, and when he died, Greta said it was the most merciful thing that could've happened. "His skin just started to fall off. His limbs swelled. These . . . These blisters covered his body and oh, his cough. His cough still haunts me." She gathered her arms around herself and let out a sob. "I called Pete on the off chance he might have news of anyone. Pete said you two were in the area. After Chris and Darren - I had to find you."

Ryan moved from his spot at the window and pulled Greta to him in a clumsy hug. "Jon went to find an opening in the wall. We haven't seen him since."

Greta pulled back from him, eyes wide. "A hole in the wall? Could there really be such a thing?"

Ryan turned his face away from her. "I don't think so." He sniffled, and spoke again. "I think he knew he was getting sick."

Greta exhaled a small _oh_.

"Spencer. We don't know where Spencer is. We, we woke up one morning and he just wasn't here." Ryan began crying in earnest this time, the first tears Brendon had seen come out of him since the walls had gone up. Brendon locked the door and took the two strides to Greta and Ryan. He had an arm around Greta's waist and the other clumsily around Ryan's neck, hand brushing his long hair back. He pulled them both close. Someone had to be strong, now that Spencer was gone.

"We're going to make it, okay? We're going to make it." Brendon didn't know if he fully believed the words that were coming out of his mouth, but he wasn't going to let the other two know that. They had to have something to believe in. They had to.

 

They got a call from Pete later that day. Greta was in the kitchen, preparing what little food they had left into a decent meal. Ryan put the phone on speaker and Brendon leaned in from his spot on the couch to listen.

Pete's voice came tinny through the tiny speakers. "They ate Joe, man. They ate him." It sounded like he was crying, he sounded distressed, "Food's running out all over Chicago. We have to get out of here. Travis is on the other side of the wall. We're going to plan an escape. It's just me and Patrick now."

Brendon spared a quick glance towards the kitchen. Greta was still cooking, as if she hadn't heard anything, but he noticed a set to her mouth, how her shoulders shook. He wondered briefly what had happened to Darren and Chris, but Pete began speaking again.

"Who's with you?"

Ryan and Brendon's eyes met, before Ryan spoke, "Me and Brendon, plus Greta. She showed up earlier this morning."

Pete let out a ragged sigh. "Well, once we get out, we're coming for you. Stay safe."

Ryan nodded, though Pete wouldn't be able to see him. "You too." He looked over the phone and at Brendon after Pete hung up. "Shit."

Brendon stood up and paced the floor. "What the fuck is going on? This is something out of a horror movie. This shit doesn't happen in real life."

Ryan said nothing, but he agreed. He curled in tighter on himself and hugged his arms to his chest. His shirts were still hanging looser on him, although he had begun eating again after realizing that he needed to be a survivor.

Ryan hoped he could survive this.

 

Their dinner was simple that night, but Brendon felt like it was the most extravagant thing he had ever eaten. He even flashed Greta a wide grin, and she returned it with a small smile of her own. There hadn't been much to smile about since the walls were built.

Ryan twirled the spaghetti around on his fork and took a bite, before looking at the both of them. "I think we should go outside tonight."

Greta looked distressed, but Brendon and Ryan hadn't been outside the house in weeks. All they knew of the outside was what they saw looking out the window or when they pissed off the side of the porch.

"I mean, surely there are other survivors," Ryan continued. "Maybe we can band together and figure out a way to get out."

Greta, who had been filled in on the conversation with Pete, spoke up. "I don't think that's a good idea." Her blond hair hung in ratty chunks around her face, but it didn't diminish the look of terror in her eyes. "It took me weeks to get across the city safely. Whoever is out there isn't happy and isn't going to be happy to see us."

Brendon saw the frustration in Ryan's face, in the way he held his body. He quickly jumped in before the situation could escalate into a fight. "Maybe we can just poke around our area. I mean, we don't need to go explore the whole city. Then we can come back, wait for news from Pete."

Ryan lowered his head, and Greta raised hers. "Okay. Don't be disappointed when you realize there's nothing good out there." She sighed. "I just don't want to lose any more of my friends. Surely you understand that."

 

Greta took a baseball bat with her. Brendon wasn't sure where she found it, but he didn't question her. Ryan stepped out of the doorway and into the lawn carefully, looking around like he had never seen grass before.

Brendon let his eyes search the horizon and found that this was not the Vegas he once knew. Buildings had crumbled, and there were cars stopped all along the road, some with their occupants still in them, face down, and others with their drivers spilling out half way, faces crushed against the ground. The cars were all facing one direction - away from the city.

Ryan walked to the pavement. When he got there he heard a low moan, and he jumped, startled. He looked down and a hand was weakly reaching out to him. He took a few steps back, horrified, before he retched on the side of the street. The body, covered in boils with bones exposed in some places, let out a piteous keen and let his hand drop to the ground. The motion took two of the body's fingers off.

Brendon had to hold down the bile that was rising up his throat, and he swallowed heavily. "Ryan," he murmured. Ryan stopped puking and looked up at Brendon. He wiped spittle clumsily from his mouth. Brendon pulled Ryan into a hug and murmured nonsensical words into his ear, soothed him.

"This would be easier," Ryan said, choking a little, "This would be easier if the dead were actually dead."

Greta sidled up close to them. "Come on. It isn't good to be apart or to stay in one place very long."

Brendon didn't want to know how she knew that. Some things, he guessed, were better left unsaid.

They covered the area around the house, looking for anyone who could still be alive. They found no one. Ryan let out a frustrated sigh and turned to head back to the house. The sun was just starting to come up over the horizon.

They didn't expect the shrill shriek when it happened or the woman jumping over the fence to get to Ryan. Brendon started running towards the pair and he heard Greta's foot steps pounding behind him. "Ryan!"

Ryan delivered a punch to the feral woman's sternum, but he was weak and couldn't do much damage. He yelled for Brendon and Brendon yelled back and that was enough to distract the woman for a second. Her face was stretched into a snarl and painted with what looked to be dried blood and soot. She was bent low to the ground, like some animal, and her fingers were curled into claws. She was wearing the shreds of what looked to be a police uniform.

That moment gave Ryan enough time to start running toward the house, but not enough time to get away. When the woman - a beast almost, now - realized Ryan was escaping she turned and ran after him, tackling him to the ground. Her teeth closed around his neck and pulled, ripping out flesh. Brendon and Greta both cried out at the same time and increased their speed.

Brendon made it to Ryan before Greta and he pulled the woman off of him, shoved her to the ground. She growled at him like a wild dog and bared her teeth again. She moved like she was going to lunge, but a baseball bat to her back knocked her down. The woman landed and Greta delivered a fatal blow to her head, the skull cracking under the weight of the bat.

Greta stood there, panting, before she dropped the baseball bat and burst into dry sobs. Brendon didn't move to console her, however, he was too busy checking on Ryan. He collapsed to his knees beside him, hands coming to cradle Ryan's head. That woman had taken a huge bite out of his neck, and both Ryan and Brendon were covered in blood. Ryan looked up with weak eyes, coughing and spluttering, before trying to get a few words out. "At- at least . . ." Brendon tried to soothe him, tried to tell him he'd be fine, that everything would work out. "I-I didn't get," he paused, tried to swallow, but only managed to choke on his own blood. ". . . the S-Sickness."

Just like that, Ryan's body went limp and his eyes looked glazed. Brendon didn't hold back his tears this time, didn't hold back the hoarse scream that tore its way from his throat. He clutched Ryan's body close to him and shook until the sun came up.

*

What no one expected was the ferocity that came to a person if they managed to survive the Sickness. No one was ever cured of it, but some unlucky people learned to cope with it. The Sickness changed a person, made them more beast-like, made them savage. It was like the disease was getting rid of what made people human, taking away the knowledge factor.

People banded together like wild dogs. Some asserted their dominance, while others found their place among the followers. However, they all went crazy from the Sickness, from surviving boils and blisters and their skin falling off in chunks. They survived the hacking cough that tore their throats and the terrible migraine that never diminished. They survived the burn and ache in their joints, the itch underneath their skin. They survived the infections that came after the Sickness and they survived the scarcity of food behind the walls.

The scarcity of food led to the bands of wild people to find new sources of food - including people who just so happened to be wandering the streets. They lost their morality and tearing apart a human body didn't seem so terrible. As long as they could eat, they would at least be half way satisfied.

They often turned against the weakest in their tribe, when other people were nowhere to be found and they were especially ravenous.

The catch was, these savages weren't alive anymore. The Sickness had ravaged their bodies - there wasn't anything left to be alive. Their hearts didn't beat, no blood ran through their veins. Their brains still worked on a primitive level, however, and the one thought that ran through it was "food."

Maybe this was what made the Sickness so terrible.

*

Pete's call came in a month later. Brendon and Greta had already buried Ryan by that time and both were looking worse for wear. Brendon clicked on the phone and answered tiredly, "Hello?"

Brendon had never talked to Pete on the phone, mostly because Ryan liked to and it made him feel like he had a distinct purpose. Now that Ryan was gone, however, Brendon naturally assumed the position.

Pete's intake of breath was sharp and a knife to Brendon's gut. "When did...?"

Brendon took a shuddered breath in and carefully replied, "A month ago." He ran a hand through his dirty hair.

"Fuck." Pete murmured something to someone out of the range of the phone before returning his attention to Brendon. "Patrick says to tell you we'll see you soon."

A huff of laughter escapes through Brendon's mouth. "You mean you fuckers actually did it? You got out of the wall?"

Pete let out his braying laugh. "Yeah, but it wasn't easy, let me tell you. Don't worry though, we're coming for you two."

Brendon allowed a grin to take shape and when Greta walked into the room, hair wet from her shower, he mouthed the words "they're out" to her. Greta couldn't help the excited squeal and she hugged Brendon around the neck, and yelped "Pete, Pete!" into the phone.

Brendon clicked the phone onto speaker so they both could hear what Pete was about to say. "I need you two to get to the east wall. There's a gas station there, and I need you to be there in three days. When you get there, call this number back. Travis and Gabe have been working hard on ways to get people out. I can't tell you much more than that right now, because I'm pretty sure we're being monitored. We have about the only communication lines now. Television doesn't exist anymore. Radio is only static."

"God..." Greta breathed the name out.

"You know all those times I joked about starting a revolution?" Pete asked, voice stronger than Brendon had heard it in a long time. "Well, that revolution has started. We've been traveling around, gathering people who are sick of everything." Pete paused here to laugh, scoffing whoever was in charge and who had failed. "We have connections in every city from Chicago to Las Vegas, and William is working on our connections up to New York. Vicky-T some how got out of L.A. before the walls went up and she's been hanging around out there, keeping in touch with Gabe. She's coming up to Las Vegas and we're all going to meet."

Brendon had no idea so many people were still alive. He breathed a small sigh of relief. "Okay, okay. So we'll see you in three days?"

"Yeah, yeah. We'll see you soon." Pete hung up and Brendon went to plug the phone into the wall, only to realize that it wouldn't charge. They hadn't used the lights in weeks and when he flipped the switch, they wouldn't come on either. "Greta . . . How long has the electricity not been working?"

"What are you talking about? It's been working fine -" She stopped herself. "How much battery do you have left on your phone?"

"A bar." Brendon looked into her widening eyes.

"My phone's been dead for over a month. Brendon, if we can't call them in three days . . ."

Brendon hurriedly dialed back Pete's number, only to be met with his voice box. He waited, not-so-patiently for the beep and then left a hurried message. When he got off the phone, he turned it off and prayed to God that it didn't die before the three days were up.

They packed what little they had and began the treacherous journey.

*

_Pete, Pete, it's Brendon. We don't have enough battery life on the phone to last three days. The electricity is gone. We're going to the gas station, but don't expect a call. Fuck, I hope you get this message._

Pete never got their message, but it didn't matter. Brendon and Greta never made it to the gas station. Instead they found themselves trapped in an old motel, praying to see the sun.

*

The pamphlets rained down around them, and Pete stooped to pick one up. He had a large scrape down one side of his cheek and his face was hollow, his eyes bore the look of someone who had seen too much destruction. The pamphlet itself was a bright green color and had a picture of a familiar scene plastered across the front. This familiar scene was of those people who had been infected with the Sickness, bodies lying across other bodies, loose skin and exposed bones. Pete thought it was a damn disgrace that he didn't even have the will to puke at the sight. He had become so accustom to the plague that surrounded them on a day to day basis.

He opened the pamphlet carefully, reading what the Government deemed them worthy to have. The helicopters that had deposited the pamphlets on the area quickly dispersed, their large blades churning the air above them, not waiting for survivors.

> _If you are reading this message, hope is not lost! The US Government has plans to help any survivors of the plague, categorized Bubonic Type B. If you receive this pamphlet, please make your way to the closest area Government Building. We will be picking up survivors, after a brief blood test and assessment of health, on the dates Saturday, August 15, 2009 through Tuesday, September 1, 2009. Helicopters will be sent to each location, every hour on the hour! Do not lose hope!_

Pete scoffed and threw the pamphlet away. The Government was doing too little too late. He turned to Patrick, Travis, and Gabe and said, "Wouldn't it be nice to have a helicopter?"

Gabe smirked. Getting a helicopter? Now that was something he was going to take great enjoyment out of doing.

*

Greta eyed the landscape and brushed a lock of her blond hair out of her face. Brendon had guessed that they had about a mile left to the gas station that they were supposed to call Pete from. They hadn't checked the phone's battery since Brendon had turned it off, and they could only hope that there was still life in it.

Brendon caught up to her and put his hand on her shoulder. He let a small grin escape onto his face. "We're almost out."

Greta returned him with a smile and gave his hand a quick squeeze with her own. "Yeah, yeah, we are." She clutched the baseball bat more firmly in her right hand and looked back at the horizon. "Things are going to get better."

 

Soon enough, they heard thundering foot steps and they turned to look back behind them. A group of the plague survivors, the savages, were closing in on them. Brendon cursed God and Greta let a shrill scream of frustration leave her throat. No! they were so close to getting out!

Brendon grabbed Greta's free hand and they ran as fast as they could to the nearest building they could find - a dreary old, broken down motel. Their feet hit the pavement in a counter beat to those of the savages. There were too many of them for Brendon and Greta to stay and fend off, to fight.

The savages ran close to the ground, some reverting back to a more bestial way of moving as their hands hit the ground as well as their feet. They were covered in blood, dirt and soot, their clothes - or what was left of them - torn, whipping behind them as they chased their prey. They honed in on the scent of fresh blood pumping through veins.

One of the savages, a young girl with an exposed cheekbone, ripped into an older man for bumping into her. She tore out his throat before coming to a halt and beginning to devour what she could. Several other savages come to a stuttering stop so they could get a piece of what was a very easy kill. Others pressed on, gaining speed, in pursuit of fresher meat. The man leading the pack let out an inhuman growl and surged forward and ripped off a piece of Greta's yellowed dress. She screamed and responded with a baseball bat to the leader's face.

The leader ripped the bat out of her hands and hissed, but Brendon pulled Greta from the scene and urged her to run faster. They made it to motel and locked themselves in a room, huddling in the middle of the space long into the night until the savages grew bored and left to find different, easier prey.

Greta prayed for a long time after that before coming to a sickening decision.

*

The air was thick, slimy. Greta choked back a sob. Brendon sat on the bed across from her, shoulders curled in, head down. They were in some faceless part of the city, holed up in a dingy motel. The locks on the door had been checked twice, three times, and the chain lock had not moved from its position since Brendon had slid it shut. Neither of them said a word.

Outside, buildings burned. The sky was a charcoal gray and wind pushed its way from the north. What lucky people were left hid inside wreckage, stayed off the streets. Those who were not so fortunate lay in the gutters, flesh sticky yet sloughing off.

Inside the motel room, Greta lifted her head, stared at the boy - a man now, she supposed, they were not children any longer - in front of her. She pressed her hand against his knee. One of them needed to be strong. "B-Brendon," her voice caught in her throat and she had to will herself not to cry.

When he looked up, his eyes were hollow, dead. This was the face of someone forced to grow up too fast. Greta expected her face to look the same.

"It wasn't supposed to end like this." The gruffness in his voice startled her. It took her a moment to notice he was crying.

He was right - it wasn't supposed to end like this. It wasn't supposed to end at all.

Greta leaned forward and pressed her lips carefully to his. She hoped he would forgive her.

Brendon kissed her back like he was a man drowning, and she his life preserver. Soon, she pushed back. "I'm going to go find dinner, okay?"

Brendon nodded, before standing up to lock the door behind her.

 

Once she was outside, she looked around carefully. There was nobody around. She picked her way to the vacated front office. For once, her hair and body were clean, and she was wearing her least torn dress. She walked to the front desk and found the key to the supply closet. She opened it and grabbed the rat poison.

*

In the morning, Brendon was dead. Greta didn't cry. She had no more tears left. She just hoped wherever he had gone was better than this hell they had lived in.

She stood outside and for the first time in months, the clouds cleared and she lifted her face into the sun. She heard the noises of the feral, sick men and women before she saw them. They ran at her quick, hungry.

Greta smiled into the sun.

***


End file.
